At some point we encounter a rose covered in raindrops, or a photo of a kitten catching snowflakes on its tiny nose, and we feel programmed to acknowledge this as beauty, as pleasing, which indeed it is. But the problem with convention is that it goes straight to the brain and bypasses the eyes of the heart, in much the same way as clichés do in language. A poem full of phrases we’ve heard many times before is unlikely to move us, to engage our emotions. Boredom is a terrible human invention, and familiarity (to use a cliché) does indeed breed contempt.
So what must we do when there is a rose covered in raindrops before us? We must see it with new eyes. Does our heart say it is lovely, and does it give us joy? Is it a meeting with beauty? Can we see something fresh and new here? Can we know for ourselves, the loveliness of each new rose?
text and photo © Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2017
Sit, come sit, come sit awhile, on tender grass and true. Feel softness bite gently into your thighs from still stone and muddy moss. Picnic here and ponder apples and what forces them to fall, munch them, spit the pips, crunch the peel, savour the green and let the juice run freely inside and out, throat sandwiched between rivulets of life’s nectar. Here no-one is watching, no-one is judging the neatness of your knees, the correctness of your posture, the perfection of your pores, simply sit and eat, ferment in the sunny haze like cider, becoming richer every minute, stewing in your own sap. Come sit, sit awhile, and think on little things. Watch the bugs and sing to snails, dream of childhood tales, of cabbages and kings.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Photo from morguefile.com
The light of love streams in from the left and the living water bubbles through on the right, and the twain meet over my bare earthed toes. And here I am Lord, listening for your voice, waiting for your tap on the shoulder, the peace in my heart, to tell me which is the best direction. And all I hear is a third way. Why choose a path? Why not stand here and grow? The world says hurry, the world says pick one, the world says keep moving, the world says go.
Why not stay? Why not stand? Why not look about you? Why not grow deep down roots and tall swaying branches and reach for more sunlight and brooks of lapping light? Where is it you have to rush off to? Where are you journeying, except towards death, who will find you sure enough here on the forest floor when the time comes? Why not meet her here on your own territory, on your own terms and turf? When she sidles up, you will feel her footsteps in the soil, and the weariness in your sap, and you will be ready, after a life wisely lived, not spent searching out the inevitable.
Stand in my love-light-life and be a tree. Grow and spread, dive and delve. Be the marker of meeting, the embodiment of encounter, the tree of my trysting. All is here.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2016
Embryos unfurling, stretching to prehistoric patterns. The forest light filtering through your serrations, the unfossilised, fresh-fronded teeth of pure unsullied green. Here is a nursery unravelling then, millions of years of timeless tedium, edenic shapes, untouched touchstone of evolution, perfect pyramids emerging, ancient parchments unrolling to reveal your viriditas vellum, your undeterred, unchanged message. Only the wind rustling the unread pages.
©Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
Today is a greening day. A day for sitting back and watching the fullness arrive. A day for the beginning of ripeness, when the sap sings as it travels, and the roar of fruit coming can be heard. A day for things to take shape right to their very edges, and for smoothness of round apple bellies to groan in satisfied stretching.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt 2015
I see a meadow, our meadow is coming. A place where the butterflies of grace flit to and fro by unearthly rhythms, and the grasses are clothed in splendour. Where cornflowers explode like blue star fireworks and the poppies sing in zinging red robes. Sky and blood and gold move in the Spirit’s breath; the dandelion roars God’s praise, and the humble daisy sways, eyes closed in pink-edged prayer.
© Keren Dibbens-Wyatt